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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27754288">Gee, Thanks</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire'>GrrraceUnderfire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Native American/First Nations Culture, Prisoner of War, Stalag 13, Thanksgiving, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:08:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27754288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing really gets Carter mad, except when it's the fourth week of November and people start talking about things they really don't know jack about. A Thanksgiving tale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes people get in a bad mood. Everyone does, really. Well, everyone except Andrew Carter.</p><p>Carter was the most placid and easy-going member of Colonel Hogan's team. It goes without saying that Newkirk and LeBeau were testy and acid-tongued. Hogan himself had his moody moments and could be cynical and mocking. Even Kinch could be sarcastic now and then, even if he was never rude.</p><p>But Carter seemed to have his own personal supply of sunshine and lollipops. He was a stranger to derisiveness, and even bad news never got him down for long.</p><p>Ok, sure, sure. There was that time Mary Jane sent him a Dear John letter and he got pretty upset. There was the time Newkirk and LeBeau got on his nerves whooping around the barracks in a bad movie imitation of brave Native warriors, even though he never mentioned why it was annoying or why he was so skilled at carving a bow and arrow. And then there was the time they dunked him in the well and made jokes about transferring him to the Navy as a frogman. But none of those incidents kept him down for long. And nobody could remember a time when Carter was really, really sore.</p><p>Not until November 28, 1943, anyway. It was a Sunday, and even Carter was usually extra nice on Sundays. Of course, Sunday was the one day of the week that Newkirk made a real effort not to swear, which pretty much lifted everybody's mood.</p><p>It was a particularly cold week, a time when the nip in the air suddenly made the tip of your nose tingle with the certainty that winter was approaching, and when you could smell snow, even if you couldn't see it yet. Baseball had given way to football, and shirtsleeves to jackets and coats, and everybody was rubbing their hands together in formation and wishing they had gloves. And people were getting nostalgic. Christmas was on its way, and that was a little something to look forward to, because the folks at home and the Red Cross would do something to make it a little nice. They always had, the long-timers reassured the newcomers.</p><p>Oh, yeah, and Thanksgiving had come and gone. That got everybody thinking about home and mom and cooking, except of course the British and the French and the Canadians and… well, OK, everyone but the Americans. But there were a lot of them and they were noisy and loud and they dwelled on things.</p><p>November 25 wasn't much of a Thanksgiving, but LeBeau mashed some potatoes and came up with some gravy, and cobbled together an apple pie, and that seemed to help.</p><p>Come to think of it, that was the day Carter started getting a little testy. So testy that at one point he had actually snorted—dismissively one might even say. It happened late that night when Addison started explaining to Newkirk and LeBeau what Thanksgiving was all about.</p><p>"It all happened in Plymouth, not far from where I grew up," Addison began.</p><p>"Winthrop Hayborough Addison III," Garlotti joked. "Makes total sense. I figured you were on the Mayflower."</p><p>Addison ignored the joke and decided not to mention his Mayflower Society credentials. "The Indians had been warring, attacking the Pilgrim settlements, but they were able to set aside their differences and share a big meal. Which of course had turkey and sweet potatoes although I'm guessing no pumpkin pie." Addison was proof positive that a fancy pedigree and private education was no guarantee that you'd have a brain, because he was kind of a dope.</p><p>"I'm sorry, I'm n- not sure I'm getting this," Newkirk put in. "You lot invaded America, and the Indians j-j-just wanted to sit down and have lunch with you?"</p><p>"Yeah, they did. And they helped the Pilgrims survived the winter, teaching them how to plant stuff… and stuff like that," Addison said vaguely.</p><p>"Oh, very specific. Righto, and then what? They lived side by side in happy harmony?" Newkirk asked.</p><p>"No, stupid. They gave up the land and went west. The end," Addison said.</p><p>"Oh. That makes perfect sense, then," Newkirk said with his patented, gigantic eyeroll.</p><p>That was when Carter made the sound. It was deep and guttural and nasal all at once, and it sounded like he'd suddenly had an attack of phlegm. It was such an odd sound emanating from Carter that people just assumed he was catching cold.</p><p>Except for Newkirk, whose perceptive ears caught the note of derision embedded in the grunt. He figured Carter was laughing at him, and immediately took offense.</p><p>"What, Carter?" Newkirk asked irritably.</p><p>"Nothing," Carter replied. "Just forget it." Then he stood, shook his head, and rolled his eyes.</p><p>LeBeau, who had been sitting silent but amused as Newkirk deconstructed Addison, was plainly startled by that sight. What was this madness? Exasperation, impatience and disdain were not in Carter's vocabulary. In shock, LeBeau toppled his chair backwards, and it was only swift thinking by Kinch that prevented him from cracking his head open on the floor.</p><p>"Something is bothering you, Carter," Kinch said as he returned LeBeau to an upright and locked position. "Come on, spit it out."</p><p>"They weren't 'The Indians,' they were Wampanoags," Carter said. "There's more native tribes than you realize. And they didn't all 'go west.' Some are still in Massachusetts. There's a powwow in Mashpee every July." He let out a breath. "That's all I'm saying."</p><p>"Mashpee?" Newkirk chortled. "Blimey, we eat those in England, you know. That's a real place?"</p><p>"Yes, it's a real place with real tribes," Carter said wearily. It was getting late, so he got out his kit and brushed his teeth and got ready for bed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day, the talk was still of Thanksgiving. The Canadians from Barracks 11 had pointed out after rollcall that they had quietly and unobtrusively celebrated Thanksgiving the second Monday in October, close to the actual harvest. Late November, they emphasized, made no sense at all.</p><p>The Americans were undeterred, and were utterly unimpressed with quiet and unobtrusive anything. They were nothing if not loud and obtrusive and damned proud of it. So they ignored the claims to cultural superiority of their neighbors to the north and continued to talk about and fantasize about their own Thanksgiving traditions, which were actually remarkably similar to the Canadians’. There would be no agreement as to who thought of Thanksgiving first.</p><p>Around midday, Olsen and Garlotti were stretched out on their racks, just talking, neighbor to neighbor.</p><p>“Boy, I’d give anything for a turkey sandwich. Leftover turkey is the best,” Olsen said. “A little cranberry sauce, some stuffing, a couple of slices of bread, and I’m in heaven.”</p><p>“Don’t forget the mashed potatoes,” Garlotti said.</p><p>“What, on the sandwich?” Olsen said incredulously.</p><p>“Oh, hell, yeah. And gravy,” Garlotti said. He was nearly as food-obsessed as LeBeau.</p><p>“Best thing the Pilgrims ever came up with,” Addison interjected.</p><p>Carter liked turkey and mashed potatoes as much as the next guy. But he didn’t like half-truths and plain old errors, also known in his vocabulary as “lies.”</p><p> “The pilgrims did not have mashed potatoes and gravy,” Carter said fiercely from his spot at the table. “And they didn’t have cranberry sauce. They probably didn’t even have turkey. Maybe just some small wild turkeys, but it wasn’t the main event.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, smarty pants? What was the main event?” Addison inquired.</p><p>“In the eastern woodlands? Venison, and lots of wildfowl,” Carter replied. “Flint corn, chestnuts, and walnuts. Pumpkins and squash. And the Wampanoag probably ate eels and shellfish, like lobster, clams and mussels. They would dry and smoke them.”</p><p>“We eat eels in London,” Newkirk said from his perch at the table, where he was sitting opposite Carter. “Well, not mmme, I think they’re horribly disgusting. But j-jellied eels are quite popular.”</p><p>LeBeau, at the head of the table, made a gagging sound and excused himself. He was definitely not faking it.</p><p>“They probably had all of that food, and more,” Addison said wisely. “You know, they feasted for three solid days.”</p><p>“Blimey, that’s a lot of food,” Newkirk said. Now it was his turn to look nauseated. His stomach was tetchy when it came to abundance.</p><p>“Yeah,” Olsen and Garlotti said in unison, looking and sounding dreamy. LeBeau, having recovered from his bout of British cuisine-induced retching, managed to smile and gaze happily into the middle distance at the thought of a three-day culinary festival.</p><p>“Of course, the Indian king was there,” Addison said. “Massachusetts.”</p><p>“Massasoit,” Carter said.</p><p>“Same thing,” Addison shrugged.</p><p>“No, that sounds different to me,” Newkirk said helpfully.</p><p>“It is different. And Massasoit was a sachem. Not a king,” Carter said.</p><p>“Say what?” Olsen asked.</p><p>“Sa-chem,” Carter said patiently. “A chief representing several tribes.”</p><p>“Me Big Chief,” Addison said, thumping his chest.</p><p>“No,” Carter said, rolling his eyes for the second time in two days, which also the second time in his 25 years. “Not Big Chief. Sachem.”</p><p>
  <strong>XXX</strong>
</p><p>Kinch was monitoring the radio that night while Carter prepared some supplies for a mission on Saturday night. Newkirk was keeping Kinch company, as he often did, and the topic had turned once again to Thanksgiving.</p><p>“Carter seems sort of annoyed with the whole idea of Thanksgiving,” Newkirk said. “It sounds an awful lot like Christmas to me.”</p><p>“I’m not annoyed,” Carter said as he rounded a corner. “I just think it’s a bunch of hokum.”</p><p>“Hokum” Newkirk asked.</p><p>“Nonsense,” Kinch said.</p><p>“Oh. Rubbish,” Newkirk replied. “That’s a bit cynical for you, isn’t it Carter?”</p><p>“Why is it cynical?  There might have been a harvest meal in Plymouth, but Native Americans probably weren’t there. And even if they were nice about it, it didn’t stop the Pilgrims from slaughtering the hell out of us afterwards.”</p><p>“Us?” Kinch and Newkirk said in unison.</p><p>“Them. I meant them,” Carter said.</p><p>“Hmm,” Kinch said. “Andrew, that doesn’t sound like something anyone would want to celebrate.”</p><p>Carter made an annoyed face, grunted softly, and headed up the ladder without saying goodnight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They were busy all day Saturday preparing for a mission to disable the production lines at a camera factory that was making aerial reconnaissance equipment.  Carter worked diligently on his explosives, as he usually did. But he was quiet; there was none of the usual chit-chat and stream-of-consciousness that made working by his side such an adventure. Newkirk and LeBeau were starting to get worried.</p><p>“We should talk to <em>mon Colonel</em>. Perhaps he is not well,” LeBeau whispered to Newkirk moments after Carter shooed them out of his lab. “He’s not himself.”</p><p>“He’s quiet, though. Isn’t that an improvement?” Newkirk asked. “Maybe he’s matured.”</p><p>“In two days? I don’t think so.” <em>Honestly, Pierre</em>, LeBeau was thinking. <em>He’s obviously troubled.</em></p><p>“Let’s not bother the Gov with this, Louis,” Newkirk said. “Let’s see what Kinch says. Blimey, though, Carter does know a lot about Red Indians, doesn’t he? Do you suppose all Americans are like that?”</p><p>“Not that I’ve noticed,” LeBeau said, thinking hard as he said it. “Carter knows a lot of detail.”</p><p>“Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? He’s always lost in the details. Can’t see the wwwood for the trees.”</p><p>Kinch, it turned out, had been sitting and thinking, which was one of his truly exceptional skills. Oh, everyone sits and thinks. But some people think and ruminate and dig themselves deeper into their convictions and stubbornness. Kinch thought and solved problems as he did so, sorting quickly and logically through fact and feeling. It was really quite an impressive skill.</p><p>He knew Carter to be one of the most genuine and kind people he’d ever met. He didn’t have an ungrateful bone in his body. Thankfulness was very much in his wheelhouse; Kinch had seen him pray at meals and at bedtime and before missions. So why was he so annoyed every time anyone mentioned Thanksgiving? Why had Carter, who was never cynical about anything, called it “hokum”?</p><p>And the history. He kept coming back to the history of the native people—what had he called them? Wampanoag. They hadn’t taught that in school, Kinch was sure of that. Every American school child learned the same story of the Pilgrims’ journey to America. One hundred men and women set sail on the Mayflower, seeking religious freedom. After a hard crossing, they anchored at Plymouth Rock. They endured a harsh winter with help from an Indian brave named Squanto. Then they celebrated their first year and their first harvest with the Indian tribe that had been so kind and helpful. Peace was secured, and other colonies sprang up around Plymouth. The end, as Addison had put it.</p><p>Kinch frowned as he thought back on it. He remember being a kid in third or fourth grade and feeling the bile rise up in his throat as he read his history textbook. It showed pictures of slaves enjoying themselves after a hard day at work on the plantation. Even at eight or night, James Kinchloe knew that was a whitewash. Where were the pictures of slaves laboring in the fields? And he remembered wanting to leap out of his seat and run straight home when his white tenth grade history teacher made an assignment to a class made up of colored students: Working in teams, draw up a list of the pros and cons of slavery, focusing on the economy of the antebellum south, and prepare to debate it. He’d never defied a teacher, but when he was assigned to take the “pro” side in the debate, he faked laryngitis and sat at the back of the classroom.</p><p>Kinch went to the file cabinet where the team’s most important records were kept to check out a hunch. He pulled Carter’s file and noted that his mother’s maiden was … Wanbli. Interesting. Unusual. Kinch placed a call to a U.S. contact in London, and asked his fellow radio specialist to do a little research.</p><p>The answer came back a few hours later, just as Newkirk and LeBeau came into the radio room to see him. There was a city in South Dakota by pretty much the same name--Wanblee. It was the Lakota Sioux word for “eagle.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Sunday morning rolled around, Andrew Carter was broiling. Oh, the mission had gone fine, and the camera factory was now disabled. But he couldn’t get the conversations of the last few days out of his mind.</p><p>He was hoping Thanksgiving would just fade from mind when the mail arrived and blew that possibility out of the water. Klink liked to distribute mail on Sundays to get some peace and quiet in camp, and it usually worked. It was a nice pile this time, with something for everyone, and all the men were sharing details from home. Including lots of Thanksgiving greetings.</p><p>Davis opened an envelope and pulled out a pair of drawings by his 5-year-old son. One was picture of a pilgrim with a musket taking aim at a turkey. The other was a picture of an Indian with a bow and arrow taking aim at a Pilgrim.</p><p>He laughed as he passed it around, and someone said, “That just goes to show you, you can’t turn your back on one of those dirty redskins.”</p><p>Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk looked at each other in alarm, and they were all thinking the same thing: There hadn’t been a moment to talk to Carter about what they’d figured out last night—between the mission and rollcall and mail call, there hadn’t been a break. Now the steam would be pouring out of his ears.</p><p>Carter was getting to his feet when Kinch spoke up. “Hey fellas, the four us need to meet down in the tunnel. Colonel Hogan asked us to take care of something.”</p><p>Carter was unmoved and unmoving. “That’s what they teach kids in school where you live, Davis?” He stood at the table, arms crossed, looking uncharacteristically irritated.</p><p>“I guess so. Jimmy’s in Kindergarten,” Davis said as he passed the pictures around with hardly a glance in Carter’s direction. “I guess they got an early start on Thanksgiving so they could mail the letters overseas. Lots of kids in the class have dads in the Army.”</p><p>“Not many others with POW dads, though, I’ll bet,” Mills chimed in. He hadn’t picked up on what Carter had said.</p><p>“Yeah, well, that’s bad teaching,” Carter said indignantly. “Did you ever read Lincoln’s original Thanksgiving proclamation? Because it had nothing to do with Indians or Natives or whatever you want to call us,” Carter said.</p><p>“Us?” Addison asked.</p><p>“Them. I meant them,” Carter replied. He just didn’t feel like going into it. Not today. Maybe never. “He didn’t talk about the story of Thanksgiving. He just talked about its meaning.”</p><p>“What did he say, Carter?” That was Colonel Hogan. He was always alert to changes in mood and tone among his men, and had just stepped out of his office when he heard Carter sounding surprisingly combative. Hogan kept his own voice soft, but low and sonorous; he knew how to calm the room even as he commanded attention.</p><p>“He chastised Americans for being at war with one another. He said God was angry with us for fighting, but He was still merciful, and that that we should pray for peace and healing,” Carter said with a determined look on his face. “He said to be grateful that even though a war was happening, laws were respected and obeyed, and that even though defense was soaking up our resources, we were still pretty prosperous. He said to be thankful for what we have, and to remember the widows and orphans and anyone who was suffering. That’s what Thanksgiving is about.”</p><p>“Gratitude,” Colonel Hogan said.</p><p>“Gratitude,” Carter repeated. “Not some hokey story to make people feel better that the Pilgrims and the first nation were buddies.</p><p>“But isn’t that what Thanksgiving is based on, Carter?” Garlotti sounded truly curious. “The Pilgrims and the Indians at Plymouth Rock?”</p><p>“Sure, but that’s a fairy tale. It didn’t happen that way. Within a year of that big feast, which is baloney to begin with, Myles Standish was executing Indians and driving them away from their homes. They weren’t friends,” Carter said angrily.</p><p>“So you hate Thanksgiving?” Addison piped up. “Because it sure sounds like it.”</p><p>“No,” Carter said. “No.” He was deliberately quieting himself, trying to modulate his voice. “I just don’t like phony stories. Of course we should be grateful for our blessings. We should celebrate our ability to weather hardship. We just shouldn’t do it at the expense of people who were simply defending their land. If you want to celebrate Thanksgiving, that’s great, but for crying out loud, leave my people out of it.”</p><p>“Your people?” Addison said. But Carter was on his way down the ladder to the tunnels now, and Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau and Hogan were on his heels.</p><p>
  <strong>XXX</strong>
</p><p>Down in the tunnel, alone with his teammates, Carter let his story tumble out. The words must have been bottled up and ready to explode, because they came spilling out in a torrent. By nature, Carter was a talkative guy, and his friends could see that holding things in for three days must have been brutal.</p><p>Yes, Carter said, he was part American Indian. And no, he didn’t look it. And yeah, he knew that helped him sometimes. And no, he wasn’t proud of feeling that way.</p><p>“My Grandpa was Lakota, and he was sent to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania,” Carter said. “He was fourteen the year it opened, and the Great Sioux War had just ended two years before. Most of the first class of students were from our tribe. Don’t get me wrong—he got a good education. But it was hard and sometimes it was humiliating. He knew he was being ‘civilized’ when they cut his hair and traded his moccasins for boots, and he hated that part. Eventually he went back home, and he married a white woman, and he was never really sure where he belonged after that.”</p><p>“So you’re one-quarter Lakota,” Hogan said. “And the Lakota people are part of the Sioux?”</p><p>“Exactly, Sir,” Carter said. “My ma always told me I was lucky I had blond hair, and never to forget that. Even though she loved her dad, she still said things like that. Nobody looks at me and sees an Indian, Colonel. I’ve got it easy, because a lot of people don’t like us. But I know inside that it’s part of my heritage. And I hate hearing my heritage twisted by people who don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I’m proud of who I am.”</p><p>“Hell” was the closest anyone had ever heard Carter come to swearing, and on a Sunday, no less. LeBeau and Newkirk looked stunned.</p><p>“The hell with anyone who doesn’t understand,” Hogan said. “It’s their loss.” LeBeau nodded fiercely.</p><p>“That’s right, Carter,” Kinch said. “We’re proud of you for standing up for yourself, and for your history. I feel like I know something about that, too.”</p><p>“I’ll bet you do, Kinch,” Carter said, a small smile crossing his lips for the first time in days.</p><p>Newkirk was biting his lip, trying to find the right words. “It’s hard not knowing exactly where you belong. But you’ll always belong with us, Andrew. We’re your brothers.”</p><p>Carter’s face brightened at that, but he was thinking. These guys, with whom he lived and played and ate and worked every day, were absolutely his brothers. They had each other’s back, and that meant they could take risks and stand up for what was right, even when it was hard to do so.</p><p>“You’re definitely my brothers, but not just that, fellas,” Carter said with a smile. “You’re my tribe.”</p><p>LeBeau gulped and Newkirk sniffled as the five men closed their arms around one another in a fraternal embrace. Hogan ruffled Carter's hair and pulled him closer until Kinch tugged him back. They held on silently, just long enough to be sure everyone of them understood that together, they were unbeatable.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Great Sioux War ended in 1877. The Carlisle Indian Industrial School opened on November 1, 1879, with 147 students, 84 of whom were Lakota.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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